Gold and Blue
by Blasen
Summary: His people deserved this. His people needed this. And yet, Moses wished to run. To let the blood in his legs pump him back home; back to gold. And maybe more importantly, back to blue. Back to Rameses.


Moses had once revered the shimmering colors, allowing himself to indulge in the riches of royalty. Gold. Men died for it. They fought and bled and starved for it, and while Moses clearly had it in his possession, and as he did enjoy the glamour, gold had never swept him away. Not as blue had. The deep cool colors of the desert waters, a sky which bore no clouds, the color of much more precious jems. A color in which he could solace.

Moses no longer felt comfort in either of them. As gold made him feel betrayed, and as blue brought bitterness. As they were both colors of a very important item. Rameses ring. Moses last memory of him. The only thing that kept him fighting, the only thing that kept him hoping, _wishing_. Him and Ramses. Together. Like blue mixing with gold, they brought out each other's colors. Even now, as Moses led the Israelites to the supposed land of paradise, he felt those waves.

The deep cold wash of blue, drawing around the edges of his body, drenching his mind in thoughts he swore he could forget. A life he wished had not been ruined, a life he wished he could still live. _Uncalloused hands gripped on his shoulders, pushing him into the river, steadily moving him outward, reassuring pressure on chilled skin_— Moses drew a breath, weathered hand reached up to his left shoulder, still trying to continue his walk across the land.

The feeling passed, as they always did, appearing and mingling with his already troubled mind, then vanishing, leaving himself to wonder why they even resurfaced in the first place. His thoughts flashed_, blue blue blue_. He dipped his head, mind twisting in experiences. Gold and blue. The colors that ruled his very existence. Blue blue blue. While blue was beautiful, it was fickle. It showed remorse and fury. Grief and joy. Blasts of dreams and broken promises, signals of twisting emotions coupled by grinding mercy.

_Hot skin pressed in soft sand, limbs tangling and the harshness of breath, dark brown orbs mixing with a clear blue sky— _Moses staggered, pretending the sole of his sandals hit the tip of a rock as to not worry his followers, he held his staff with two hands. He needed strength, a force in which to diminish these memories to dust so he could have peace. So he would think of gold. So he would think of the moments in which it held sway, where he found the rays anything but blinding, the deep signal of wealth and grace.

Gold which, as the years past, no longer held dazzle. Gold that turned cold and pressuring, gold that turned on his heart and displayed corrupt means and the filth of greed. Gold which he thought would lead him home, back to palace walls into the comforting arms of Asiya. Where he should have resided to the end of his days as the prince of Egypt. These two colors, which meant so much for him, brought little to no rest.

He stepped, pulling his eyes back towards the sky, away from the golden sands. He felt another wave crash into him, a whispering frost ghosting along the ridges of his face. _Fingers tracing his cheekbones, a drag of soft palms across his temples to his chin, the light press of lips, a sensation so new, so foreign, so amazing_— Moses nearly fell, hands dropping the staff, his fingers pressed on the sides of his face.

With eyes closed, he breathed in deeply. The memories he should never have, the feelings he should never have experienced, the life he wished he could relive. The moments in which he wished had never passed. He set his eyes along the deep stretch of land, bending down to retrieve his staff. He prayed for peace of mind, where he was no longer haunted. The feelings lingered. His thrashing thoughts could delay him no longer. Rameses could no longer hold him. He couldn't. His people needed this, they _deserved _this, Moses knew this so very well. Yet he wished to run. Let the blood in his legs pump him back home; back to gold. And maybe more importantly, back to blue. Back to Rameses. _Blue blue blue; like the color of Rameses shash_.

The flashes may have impaired his vision, but his legs moved him forward. His people were the only driving force, the only reason he would ever fully leave. He felt bitter. Bitter, bloody, and broken. Darkened from the pain of knowledge and wishes, the pain of having his dreams torn from him, the pain of knowing they never really had a chance anyway. He reached back to his face, tracing the still cold trails of skin. Sand dusted up, nipping at the tops of his feet, fleeing as he so hoped he could. Moses knew this was in vain. He stretched a hand down, taking a handful of sand and watched as it poured from his fingers. He looked over his shoulder, towards his people, towards his future.

He let a much needed breath out, twisting back towards the horizon, and walked. Walked because he had to. Walked because they needed him. Walked because if he did not, he would run home. Rameses had always said Moses had a place in the palace, that no matter what he would be welcomed, he could walk the through walls again and feel no ill-content. It was not like this anymore. Ramses and him could never be as they once were. Ramses and him would never play anymore tricks, they could never comfort each other after a meeting with Firaun; Moses could no longer swipe away his brother's tears.

Moses let his hands smooth over the wood, trying to distract his mind, trying to make sure no one noticed his current state. He was compromised. Heavily, disgustingly, compromised. He drew back another breath, the wind shifting, and lead his people on with any left over power he currently possessed. His distract proved useless. Rameses face still shone in front of his eyes, smiling, beckoning. Sweeping him off into a distant life, drawing his sorrows away. And for a moment, Moses forgot. Forgot the sand biting at his feet, forgot the harsh beating of the desert sun, the loud followers behind him and the familiar touch of despair pulling him down; because all he could see, was Rameses. The smile he had whenever Moses clasp his shoulder or whenever Moses would play a trick. The smile that saved Moses from pain throughout his entire life.

He needed rest, rest long enough to destroy his foul memories and clear his head. For if a leader was not focused, how could he ever lead? Moses called for them to set up camp, and to take a much needed break. No sooner had he pitched his own tent, the flashes came back, swiping away his newly found focus into the deep shades of opal_. Hands drifting down his sides, shooting downward to grasp at his hips, electric pulses expanding through his body, a rush of heat and a comforting hand digging through his hair_— Moses fell to his knees, his breathing unsteady and eyes searching for something that just wasn't there. His hands reached to his shoulder, his arms, his face, and then his hips. And he wept. Wept for the times Rameses and him had together, wept for the loss of everything he held dear, and wept for the loss of beauty in the world. _Blue blue blue._


End file.
